The Stars at Night
by Samjez
Summary: Cecil Baldwin gets forced into the job of radio host in the small town of Night Vale, in order to keep government secrets under wraps. What they didn't tell him about the job is that you are never allowed out of the recording booth, for 'safety' reasons.


When Cecil was a teenager, he was taken away.

At the time, he didn't think much of it. Most young adults in Night Vale were taken away from their parents eventually; Cecil eventually ended up wondering why he wasn't taken from his sooner. He was jealous of all of his childhood friends that were ripped away from their families by the secret police to serve as productive members of society. That's why he jumped into the secret police van as soon it was demanded from him. He was good at following orders. Maybe he was being taken away to be placed in the cub scouts squad. Maybe they would put his prized third eye to use. At the time, everything was exciting. He was going to be useful.

* * *

Cecil learns quickly that his third eye can be used to see the entirety of the small town, as the eye is omnipresent. It comes in handy with his new job that he was thrown into. When he was little, he had daydreams about being a fireman or one of those hooded figures that loitered in the outskirts of town, or maybe even a scientist.

Instead, he's put to work as a radio host. Quaint, considering that his father gave him a radio as a child and he loved playing with the knobs and listening to the news. That was long ago, and although Cecil knows it's one of his more distinct memories he notes it off as a coincidence.

They throw him into a dark room and tell him to say that the secret police are your 'friends' and report the news like nothing is wrong. When the light clicks on, Cecil sees a brand new room filled to the brim with recording equipment and a neat stack of papers sitting on a table next to a microphone. A little red light flickers on in the corner of the room glaring 'on air'. It's not the first time that the light has clicked on, and it's certainly not the last. He approaches the microphone shyly, and speaks into it for the first of many times to come.

"…Hello list—"His voice cracks, and it reminds the blonde teen that he's exactly that—_a teen._ He clears his throat, then tries again.  
"Hello listeners."

Other then the initial voice crack, his first broadcast runs smoothly with the help of the interns. He even deviates from the paper and takes a glance at the outer world of night vale for the traffic—and ends up staring at the beautiful stars. Before he loses himself in awe, he says one last thing before the show goes off air for the night.

"Good night, Night Vale. Good night."

When he asks when he goes home, the interns toss around worried looks. One says "You are home." Upon further questioning, Cecil learns that he's trapped in the booth for news purposes, like a gilded cage of sorts.

…Oh.

* * *

Two months in, and he's already broken free from his recording booth prison.

He's running as fast as his limber legs can carry him, and two months cooped up in his studio has taken its toll both physically and mentally. The hot desert sun burns his eyes in ways unimaginable before; after living in a dim studio for so long it's almost unbearable. After studying the town's layout for a couple of days with his eye, he's formulated the best possible escape route that will get him out of Night Vale…

…He hopes.

He silently thanks the new intern for leaving the recording booth unlocked for him to escape. He also silently thanks the old intern for dying to a man-eating cactus last month. He's learned a lot about the mortality rate in Night Vale after being forced into the job of Newscaster. When he was younger, he just sort of, _accepted _the fact that people die. Now he truly sees death in all of its infamous glory.

It's terrifying. Of course, he can't run a report on it as the Secret police would probably chop off his own head, only adding another tally to the body count. He coughs as the sand scrapes his lungs in an unruly way, making it harder to concentrate on where he's going or what he's doing. Just another five miles until he reaches the end of town, where he will be free.

He doesn't even make it a mile until the secret police find him via helicopter.

They haphazardly toss him into the helicopter after he's caught. Nobody talks to him or lectures him about what he's done. He doesn't need them to. Less than 5 minutes later, and they land in a secluded part of the desert, on the outskirts of town. Cecil is disoriented, but he knows exactly where they are at, as he's glanced once or twice with his eye at the place. The underground mine entrance, were dreams go to die. Of course he was forced to report that the place was actually a wonderland, but he had seen otherwise. To the residences of Night Vale, ignorance was bliss.

They slam him against a cold metal table as he squirms and grits his teeth, as that's the only thing he can do. The corrupt people holding him, pinning him back give off a smirk like they've won a game or something. They rip off his purple sweatshirt, exposing his cold, pale back. He doesn't want to know what happens to him next, but he can't help not watching with his omnipresence as what happens to him. He closes all three of his eyes as they inject him with some sort of serum in his back. The world around Cecil goes fuzzy before collapsing to dust.

He prays to the stars that he stares at every night that he will be okay.

When he wakes, he's groggy and the world isn't making much sense, and he struggles to find his bearings—he ends up hitting _something_ attached to him against a table. He fumbles for a light switch, and when he eventually finds it he flips it on with haste. Cecil quickly figures out that he's in his recording booth.

Cecil also figures out that the 'something' attached to him is four 'something's'. Four tentacles growing out of his back through perforated holes in a new shirt. So this was his punishment for disobeying the Secret police.

He isn't mortified, or shocked. He's _intrigued._

Cecil looks at his watch, and quickly discovers that it's five minutes 'till air time. He sighs, as he's groggy and has poor control over his eye at the moment and they still expect him to go on air and rave about how the police protect you.

But god forbid you defy them.

* * *

He wants to run away again, but he won't.

Speaking over the radio to his listeners has become some sort of an addiction, one that's impossible to quit given his circumstances. Over the last year or so, he's gained quite a following, as sort of a figurehead. They _need_ him and his soothing words, and he's more than happy to speak to the town. Sometimes he wishes he could speak to the townsfolk more than twice a week. Cecil also taught himself to use his new appendages to his advantage, as the tentacles are quite sticky. He can flex them and use them just like his arms to pick up things when his hands are busy with paperwork. The intern's don't mind.

For his Twentieth birthday, he shares a cake made out of alligator with the interns.

He's gained quite an appetite with his new purple tentacle limbs. The interns accommodate by bringing him around an extra meal every day. He's grown fond of the staff. In one of his daily daydream hazes, he realizes that he's really just an animal in a cell, and that the secretaries and interns that happen to die off every six months or so are the rough equivalent of zookeepers.

For the time being, he's content with this fact.

* * *

Oh god oh god.

Everything is a lie. Absolutely everything.

The police are constantly monitoring him through the microphone, listening to him talk and just waiting for him to slip up. He teaches himself to keep quiet when not on the air, as the mic never truly turns itself off. He spends his days in a blur between hiding under his desk and sleeping until his voice is needed.

And he knows the horrible, disgusting truth about the radio station. After staring at the residence of Night Vale for a year or so, he learns the correlation between the radio tower and the mutations. The followers that listen to his broadcast more are more prone to the mutations like he has—tentacles, wings, third arms; you could name the mutation and they could have three of them. There must be some correlation between the bi-weekly broadcast and the abnormalities of Night Vale… Is that why he had a third eye when he was a child? Did they plant an old receiver on him so he could assume the role of newscaster? The mere thought made Cecil sick, and he runs to the bathroom because he just can't think like that anymore. For every answer, there is a thousand questions in their place.

…Were the stars he stared at every night fake too?

* * *

Cecil does his job complacently. Not because anyone is forcing him to or threatening him with his life. But because there's no reason not to. It's not like he can escape his booth to go exploring, or go meet people on the street to chat up. He tried, and that failed miserably. At this point, 90% of the town follows his voice to their bedtimes. He wishes they wouldn't.

When he's not on air, he watches over the small town and does his best to protect everyone. Or he flies through the starry nights in his mind. Anything to starve the boredom away. Everyone loves Cecil and his voice. He himself doesn't.

* * *

There is a new scientist in town.

It's a refreshing sight to see a new face in such a small town. And to think that the secret police didn't throw him into the inescapable town, but instead the scientist with the perfect hair traveled here on his own. People here don't _do _that. He comes into the studio in a lazily thrown together town tour created by the horribly offensive Apache tracker, with his horribly offensive feather headdress. Cecil doesn't mind. The new person—_Carlos _– greets the interns, and it gives Cecil enough time to try to conceal his tentacles so he doesn't scare away the newcomer. _Carlos_ has never set foot before in Night Vale, so it's easy to assume that he doesn't deal with the supernatural very well.

The best part about Carlos is that he's so _normal._ Like vanilla normal. Although his skin and hair is a perfect Chocolate color… and the pinks in his lips…

Screw it, he's Neapolitan flavored.

But in a town of weirdoes' and freaks, scarred by radiation, the sheer normality of Carlos is mind blowing. He doesn't have any extra eyes, or limbs, or is half crazed by the desert sands. His normal-ness sticks out like a sore thumb in Night Vale. Cecil _Adores_ his hair, not because it's long and flowing and perfect, but because ever since the secret police ruined his life his own golden locks haven't need trimming—his hair never grows.

"Hello?"

Cecil jumps in place. Someone he didn't even know had entered his recording home. He is suddenly Jealous of the scientist Carlos, as he's never been able to come and go as he pleased. Carlos stares at him with curious eyes, and pulls out his hand. A handshake.

Somehow Cecil messes this simple gesture up by offering one of his hidden tentacles instead of his actual hand.

Instead of running away or screaming, Carlos tilts his head ever so slightly.

"…Whoa. That's kind of cool. Do you think I could possibly get a sample so I could run some tests on it?"

Cecil likes to think he has made a friend.

* * *

Suddenly, the work quality that goes into Night Vale's radio increases exponentially.

Nobody knows why. Maybe it's because Cecil has something to live for now.

* * *

How _DARE_ he!

Telly the Barber destroyed Carlos's perfect hair. And now Cecil will destroy Telly's life.

He called on his listeners to break into Telly's barber shop and burn his things. He doesn't have direct power, but as a figurehead people listen to him. Cecil likes to think that he has some control over the town.

He gets yelled at by station management (although their yells are more like demon screams to human ears) for talking too much about Carlos on air. Cecil hides underneath his desk when the shadowy figures of management look for him. He hides with a framed picture of Carlos, which he has appropriately named "Carlos II". For once in his career, he's genuinely happy. Not the drug induced happy that followed the night he went to the abandoned mine, but instead a sort of bliss he created for himself.

He wonders how long the happy will last.

* * *

Carlos is immune to the radiation waves caused by the radio tower.

Cecil can't help but admit that he's been keeping his third eye on Carlos, and he has been for several months. Ever since he's moved into Night Vale.

Ever since he saw him for the first time. It's not creepy. At all.

But in the months that he's lived here, nothing about him has changed. He hasn't grown another eye or begun to bleed green blood or become batshit crazy. He's still shockingly _normal. _And it's not because he doesn't listen to the broadcast, because he does. He listens to the news almost as much as some of his most devout fans. He's still normal, and still surviving. Sure, he may have grown indifferent to the daily happenings of Night Vale, but he hasn't changed.

He thinks Carlos is a god for doing the impossible- living in Night Vale unscathed, without the secret police interfering. He likes him even more for that.

A hole in space time opens up in the recording booth.

It sends Cecil into a different recording booth, one filled with entrails.

Just a year ago, he would have thought about staying in the alternate dimension forever, to escape the minuscule town of Night Vale. Thanks to Carlos, that thought didn't exist. When it's all said and done, he travels back into the space time hole. His doppelganger passes by him in the wormhole, with his eyes completely black and with a toothy smile.

He wants to ask him if he's as happy as he is.

* * *

"And here I am, stuck in my booth,_ useless,_ only able to narrate and not to help…"

For once, he forgets that the microphone is always on. Carlos is dying, and he can only watch. He turns his third eye away from the catastrophe.

"Curse this town that saw Carlos die. Curse me. **Curse it all.**" He was going to get in trouble for that one. He didn't care anymore.

"Let us take a moment to…let us…take this moment…Ladies and gentlemen, let us mourn the passing…

…can't.

…**I can't.**" His voice cracks, much like the first time he began airing his show. It's the straw that breaks the camel's back. He switches to a pre-recorded message, before screaming at the top of lungs. Let the secret police come and sedate him. He'd like to see them try.

"You give me something I LOVE and then you RIP IT AWAY! You MADE me watch him die. I could have done something,. I COULD HAVE DONE SOMETHING!"

He throws himself against the glass booth repeatedly, and to no avail it stays intact. The interns are too scared to approach him. Good. That's how Cecil likes it. Blinded by rage, he tosses around objects like they weigh nothing around him. Before he's about to rip the microphone from its stand and shred it to pieces, a small voice pipes up behind him. It's Dana, one of the Interns. For her mousy stature, she's awfully brave to travel into the den of the beast. Naturally he stretches out his tentacles to make himself appear bigger. He was overwhelmed by rage, he didn't need to deal with whatever bad news the police forced him to report as good news. She didn't cower or run away, but instead held up a small slip of paper.

"Sir, he's alive."

He opens up his third eye, and sees the truth.

* * *

They're letting him outside.

After he got a phone call from Carlos saying he wanted to see him, and the mad frenzy that Cecil went into that had him destroying a little over half of his studio, everyone unanimously agreed that going outside to see Carlos would lower his stress levels.

They're instilling trust in them. He hasn't been outside in years.

Cecil is a mixture of feelings; He can't tell whether to be excited or scared. He doesn't want to go out in the town to feel the breeze against his body, or because he wants to feel the desert sun against his back. He wants to see Carlos.

They open the once forever locked door and just let him free, like the snap of a finger. He tries not to think about how they could have done that before, but everybody has realized that the less you know in Night Vale, the better. Carlos is a brave soul for trying to uncover the truth, braver then Cecil ever was. To come to Night Vale on your own choosing instead of being forced here is pretty darn fearless.

He doesn't turn to look back at the Radio station.

He treads down the main street of the quiet town, getting a chill from the setting sun. It was nice to be outside again. Cecil eventually spots Carlos on top of his car in the parking lot of Arby's, eying the endless sky and the sunset. He quickly joins in on top of the car, simply because he can. Together, they look up at the stars. The stars that comforted him whenever he was lonely, or bored, or scared.

He wasn't comforted by them now.

He couldn't tell why exactly. They certainly were stunning, and they appeared even better then when he saw then with his third eye. It just felt _different_ and odd.

Perhaps this was because Carlos was better than the stars. Maybe he was a star. He couldn't tell.

Watching the stars with Carlos was fun tonight. Cecil thinks he'll do it again tomorrow night.


End file.
